


Miserable

by Sinworks



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Autofellatio, Bisexual Guts, Discussions of internalized homophobia, Guts/His Right Hand, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Rimming, Started as crying over obscenely beautiful nsfw art and then morphed into writing a sad erotic story, discussions of childhood trauma, how do I tag this?, oh and there's also some:, solo masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinworks/pseuds/Sinworks
Summary: Guts gives in to some urges he isn't fond of and spends some time to himself.
Relationships: Guts/Righty
Kudos: 23





	Miserable

**Author's Note:**

> There's only one thing I've ever had real reason to complain about with Berserk (it's probably the least flawed manga I've ever seen) and that's been the treatment of male sexuality. There are only two, maybe three male characters interested in men in the story. Two of them are pedophiles, and the other one is fucking _Griffith_.
> 
> But, it's never felt safe to complain about it. While it IS homophobic, all of this happens fairly early in the manga, which for Berserk, means upwards of twenty freakin' years ago. And since there haven't been any depictions of homosexuality since then in Berserk, I have no way of knowing if Miura has gotten past that and it doesn't feel fair to hold it against him. Unfortunately, even if Miura himself thought Guts weren't straight, there's really no going back on the childhood trauma he suffered, and if he were bisexual, he'd likely never admit it to himself. He'd deny it and hate it and hate himself, and considering what he went through, it's understandable. So I wrote some sad Guts/Rightey to encapsulate that. Sorry for the long A/N, on with the smut.

He didn't like this about himself. In fact, he really hated it.

Guts usually suppressed and fought down these thoughts. It wasn't easy to do, when you had so much free time on a ship headed to a destination a long way away, and hadn't had sex in ages. Whenever he succumbed to his traitorous urges and retreated to his room in the depths of Roderick's ship, though, he almost always fell back on his memories of the nights he'd spent with Casca. He'd wanted for no other women since he'd realized what he felt for her, but that didn't mean that he wasn't a man like anyone else. His body wanted more, and compounding his lack of distractions was the fact that he no longer had to spend his nights fighting off ghosts and demons, for now at least. Peace came with small prices, it seemed.

He'd developed a bit of a routine. He would fall back on his usual fantasies, lusting for women, and usually one woman in particular, six days out of the week. On the seventh, he allowed the other part of him to get the better of him. The part he hated quite passionately, the part he'd cut off and burn like an infected limb if he could. Once a week, Guts allowed his thoughts to be filled with not women, but men.

Right now, he was laying in his bunk in his room, door locked, metal arm discarded, and nude. It was really quite pleasant, stretched out naked on a fairly comfortable cot, the sunlight streaming through the small circular window past the surface of the water, with only the rocking of the boat on the ocean for company. He's sure there's some name for it that ship hands would know, but he's never been a naval man himself. Wetting his lips with his tongue, Guts pulled his left arm behind him, resting his head on the slightly-rounded stump, and let his right hand trail down his chest and stomach before coming to his shaft.

It was already hard, despite himself. It rested against his abdomen, coming up to just past his navel, a thick blue vein visible at the base of his otherwise rather smooth dick. He sighs. _May as well get to work_. He closes his eyes, wrapping his fingers around himself and stroking slowly. His breathing begins to even out as he focuses on his task, mind searching for a man that he could latch onto. As usual, he came up largely blank. None of the men who he'd passed by in the last few months had been worth glancing twice at. Serpico was too narrow and feminine for his tastes (why did he have _tastes_...?), and Roderick.... Was it okay to fantasize about Roderick? He was engaged, after all. The man was fairly good-looking, but Guts resolves to keep him out of places he shouldn't be in his mind. Knowing how Farnese felt about him, a taken man, it would be almost funny in a twisted way to jack off thinking about the man she was betrothed to.

So instead, it's a blank, faceless man that he crafts in his mind, a smooth body rippling with muscle that lays with him in this bed. He spreads his legs just slightly to not press against his balls, bending his knees at the same time. He envisions this blank man, a picture of male virility, to be resting on top of him, body sliding over his own, an erection pressing against his leg and stomach. What does he want from this man?

Guts' mouth opens slightly, wetting his bottom lip again. He thinks, and he wants kissing. He wants to feel a man's lips, thick and rough, though perhaps not as chapped as his own, being pressed against his. He wants to feel his mouth being pressed open by a questioning tongue, one that becomes erotic and demanding soon after. He wants that type of kiss that managed to be both sexual and romantic, something that was the height of intimacy. He wants to suck on this man's wandering tongue and wants his sucked the same way. The hand on his shaft begins a steady rhythm, his rebellious body responding well to the image in his mind.

He wishes at times like these that he still had both his arms. In his head, he is reaching his right arm up, sliding it along the length of this fantasy man's muscular back to rest at the back of his head, holding him in this intimate lip lock he's imagining. Kissing though, isn't enough to get him off today. So he lets the scene change, going from a rocking bed in the inside of a ship to a grassy clearing in a forest, fireflies lighting a peaceful night. This man in his head leans up, pushing himself up around Guts' body to stare down at him, and Guts' hand leaves his dick to focus on the next part of the fantasy: hands, wandering over his body. As his fingers trail up the crease between his abdominal muscles, the imaginary man runs both hands up a stomach and chest covered in thicker muscle and laden with scars. He wanted someone who would want both, his body and the pain it'd been through, and admire it. His hand stops on his left pectoral, envisioning a hard jawline stopping there. His breath hitches as his imagination takes over fully for a second, seeing a lustful man, a knight maybe, or a warrior of some kind, running a wet tongue over the broad muscle's entirety. When he comes back out of it, his hand reaches up to his own mouth, sucking just for a moment on his middle finger to wet it and returning it to his chest and letting it slide over the left side of it, breath coming in slight pants as the wet feeling across his chest sends sparks of heat down his body to his dick. His fingers come over his nipple, hard and raised, and rub it for a moment, imagination depicting the man taking it in his mouth and sucking.

He leans over to his left in his bunk, shifting slightly to loosen the arm behind his head, and stretches to let his tongue brush across the muscle in his upper arm, wishing he had someone with him to share in this fantasy and hating himself for it. This wasn't right, it was fucked in every sense of the word. And he was going to continue it anyway.

He begins to wonder if he has a bit of a fixation on tongues, as in his mind he is taken hold of again in a firm kiss before the imaginary man lets his tongue slide over Guts' jaw, then his neck, then his collar, before going down his chest again. He continues down each one of Guts' abs, leaving a slightly shiny trail in his wake that feels cold while the imaginary forest scene's wind blows across his body, until the man he wants reaches his shaft. Guts' hand returns to it as his mind concocts the image of a man dragging that same tongue torturously up his length before taking the head in his mouth and pushing down, taking in half before rising again. Knowing it was unrealistic and not caring, he continues with the fantasy, the man dipping lower and lower each time, sucking and providing an amazing feeling against the sensitive area near the head, until lips touch the base of his cock. The man remains there for just a second each time he descends, showing off with eyes glancing up at Guts while he watched.

The hand around his shaft has started moving much faster without him noticing it. Only when he feels the beginning edge of orgasm climbing in him does he pull himself out of the fantasy. Despite his shame, he was enjoying this too much to simply let it be over five minutes in. What was next?

He thinks for a moment, gazing at his body and wondering. The fantasy has stopped, as if waiting. What was wrong with just continuing the oral sex idea?

Traitorous as ever, his hand wanders down past his shaft to his balls, massaging them slightly before moving past them to creep between his thighs. Women liked that, to be pleasured inside themselves with a man's fingers. He's never tried this before, and Guts is wary of it. Touching himself there, at his..... _entrance_ , was like reaching for some evidence of a past crime: he did not want to do it, he did not want to acknowledge it, he wished it weren't even there. He rubs it slightly with his index and middle finger, feeling himself tighten and shy away in response. Pain and shame and agony flashed back into his mind, flooded into it before he could push it back. He should stop...

Was that weak? Letting himself be affected that deeply so many years later? That he couldn't even explore his own body? But why should he want to explore it? He was a man, there was only one part that really mattered...

Guts swallows harshly, letting out a deep breath he'd been holding on for a few seconds. It was his body, and he'd explore it or neglect it any damn way he wanted to. The idea of trying to push anything past that barrier, inside him, repulsed him. Even his own rebellious libido couldn't make that idea appealing in the least. At the very least, he had assured himself that his place when it came to sex was on top. But he still wants to feel something down there. Unbidden, the image of the blank man fills his mind again. Guts feels hesitant, aggravated, turned on, and terrified all at once as he imagines that man placing hands on his inner thighs to spread them apart slightly, and pulling him to align him better. The blank face disappears behind Guts' groin as he pictures his most vulnerable area being licked. Nothing enters, nothing even attempts, but his shaft, half-flaccid, wakes again as he thinks of wide, long, slow licks to that sensitive area. His breath hitches and he begins to pant again as he realizes, furious with himself, that it's the most arousing thing he's imagined yet. Finally giving up, he brings his hand to his face, drawing his tongue over his fingers to make what he's feeling real. His fingers hesitantly return to his entrance, rubbing the now wet tips there. It's even better than before, sending tingles down his legs and up his spine, and his cock twitches. His long-faded orgasm begins to build behind his abdomen again, creeping upward towards his shaft.

He stops the fantasy again abruptly. As long as he was exploring and alone, he may as well try something else. He has no explanation for the idea or why it comes, but it doesn't carry quite the same fear that stimulating his ass did. On the other hand, it's much more bizarre. There was no way in hell he'd ever truly feel a tongue down _there_ , but maybe....

Guts repositions himself, sliding down and back so that his head is lying flat on the pillow behind him instead of at an angle. While the cot is long enough to accommodate him (though just barely), the ceiling to the room is low, and the bottom of the bunk above him offers a surface on which to press his feet against as he struggles to angle himself. When he settles, he is curled with his legs over his head, trying to let his own weight bring his waist closer to his face. It takes a little more re-aligning himself before gravity does the work for him and points his shaft where he wants it. The pressure bearing down on his neck lets him know that he's going to regret this if he keeps it up too long. He brings his hand up to the back of his thigh, holding it downward and in the process bending his waist closer to himself. Despite struggling to reach, his tongue still only barely touches the head of his cock.

He felt ridiculous, but not as though he was done yet. Pulling himself back up onto the pillow to get the proper angle with his head, and stepping his feet further along the underside of the bunk above him, he tries again, and.... _success_. He's able to latch his mouth onto his member, at first just the thick head, and then a little more, about a quarter or a third of the way down. Judging by the strain he's feeling in his spine, collar, and abdomen, it's not his flexibility that's allowing him to achieve this. It's too uncomfortable for him to bother with any pride concerning the size of his genitals. He begins a careful rhythm, craning his neck forward at the same time that he pressed his waist downward in order to take in as much as he could, before pulling back and then repeating it. It tastes no different than any other skin he's tasted--which is a relief, as he liked to consider himself a rather clean man--and there's a humiliating sucking sound each time he pushes and pulls, even though he tries not to make any noise.

It feels good, but not amazing. His tongue is pressing against the top of his dick, not the bottom where the sensitive area is, and though he can't feel his orgasm receding, he can't feel it edging forward anymore either. Sucking himself off is a strange experience, but it was so new and untested that he was hard-pressed to feel any fear of it. After growing a bit bored of the way he was pleasuring himself, he tried focusing on the head, as it responded better to his tongue's movements. It works, and for maybe a minute or two he can feel the sparks up and down his length and feel his orgasm building again. As it was though, the whole position was just too difficult to maintain, and Guts removes himself from his mouth and unwinds his body when he feels like his spine is about to snap in half. Laying splayed back against the sheets again, and left with a soreness in his neck and back muscles trying to pull back into their usual lengths, he decided that that was enough experimenting for one week. Or a year, or the rest of his life, really.

If he didn't get a move on, he was going to end up holding back his libido for another hour or two when someone called him up to deck for something. Sighing, Guts attempted to reignite the vivid scenes he'd been constructing earlier, he wraps a hand determinedly around his dick. Despite how his miscalculation had strained his body, said dick was still at attention, throbbing slightly from being nearly pushed to release and left hanging so many times. He gives it a squeeze, trying to make the blood flow as much as possible, before moving down to his balls and rubbing them a bit. After spitting in his hand and starting up a quick pace on himself, he finally manages to submerge himself in fantasy again.

Though he's laying flat, in his vision he's standing straight, looking down. Before him is the man that he's designed, body full of muscle and sex waiting to be taken. As he strokes faster, the Guts in his head reaches out and takes hold of the man's ass, a cheek for each palm, and holds him in place while pushing forward, erection sliding between the cheeks and grinding the man's entrance. He imagines a low, raspy voice moaning and murmuring consent, before he sees himself pushing in, lodging the head inside a tight ring of muscle before pushing further and slowly, steadily filling his partner. The Guts on the bed lets out a groan of pleasure as the Guts in his mind buries himself to the base, hips pressing together. What follows is a back-and-forth motion that drags back old memories, with him remembering the exact feeling of flesh around his cock, or at least the closest to it, as his mind called back on experience with Casca. A barely-audible _slap!_ sounds each time he thrusts in fully, panting heavily and breathing hard and fast.

His body wants to make love. It wants to have sex, it wants to _fuck_. He wants it all, and inside his mind, he grasps at the hips of this man he's created and slams home again and again, hating himself every second of it. His spit-slicked hand moves faster than ever, and several other scenes offer themselves to him. A man dragging a tongue across his cock in one vision, another man kissing him deeply while he fucked another in a second vision, leaning back and relaxing while a man lapped at his entrance in a third. Always men, and Guts despised them, was disgusted at how appealing it was, and how much it drove pleasure through his body just to imagine it. Men, wanting him and being wanted in return. Guts grinds his teeth together, wishing he could cut out this part of his mind and bury it, burn it. Better to be a repressed mercenary than a repressed, perverted, predatory mercenary. He couldn't be like this. It was wrong, it was evil, it was dangerous, he knew it from experience...

Guts barely avoids crying out, gasping and eyes jerking open, arching his back as orgasm finally flooded through him and lit his body ablaze for an instant. A pathetic whine leaves his throat, followed by a growl that was a combination of masculine wanting and anger at the un-masculine sound that had preceded it. Ropes of thick white semen shoot out, and more undignified irritation fills him as it spurts across his stomach and up his chest, a little bit even landing on his cheek. He feels like a whore. Even his climax had to be filthy.

He lays there, panting for breath, body loosening and tension receding. He wishes he could go to sleep, and not have to feel what he knows is coming. But he doesn't sleep, and he feels it anyway.

Shame. Disgust. He's passed the denial that'd hung around for a few years after he'd realized what his body wanted from men. He'd faced reality. And the reality was that he was infected. He'd been attacked, abused, and infected by that filthy fucking pederast, and now he was diseased. There wasn't a cure for this disease. The Holy See was bullshit, their purity was bullshit, and there was no way to remove what had he had contracted.

The sunlight through the window no longer feels inviting. He turns over on his side away from it, shame filling every corner of his body. How had he allowed himself to become complacent with being a fucking homo, allowed himself to go through with that fantasizing? All his convictions and war declarations....he could kill all the demons he wanted, but he was corrupted by the kind of evil that came from a human. Or at least, a monster in the shape of a human. In the end, he was still stuck with a mark on him that no amount of anger and violence could tear away.

He could never tell Casca this. He had healed somewhat with her help, it was true. But she would never accept this part of him. It was a parasite, an entity that ran contrary to how men and women were supposed to be. She deserved better than him. Even if he could wipe all of his crimes away, she would still deserve better than stained goods, deserve better than a man infected by perversion. Tomorrow, it would be different, and he would assure himself of his sexuality again, and the same for the five days afterward. And then he'd repeat this day's routine, feeling it all over again.

His eyes burned as he shoved a pillow over the side of his head, trying to force himself to forget, and to fall away into slumber.


End file.
